Grace

Author's Note: Did you guys miss them?

Sooo… maybe I was a bit cruel leaving you all 'hanging'… LOL. Well, there can't be a second part without a third. There's just no symmetry in two adjoined stories… It requires a third. And there're too many unanswered questions: what happened, really? Where'd they all go? Did Jackson die in the ravine? What happened to Lisa and Cecilia after they got back to civilization?

I'll take this golden opportunity to thank you all again! THANKS for reading, and for all the reviews. I hope you appreciate reading my stories even half as much as I appreciate hearing your thoughts on them.

And yes, I HAVE started working on something original… Yay me! Finally. :) /Love, Nicolina.

Chapter 1. Crime Scene Investigations

' January 4, 2008

Our new apartment is nice. Really nice. Expensive-nice. New. Bright. Panoramic windows facing the ocean. Two bedrooms. Second floor. I can breathe here. It only takes us a minute to walk down to the beach. And there's a playground and a park close by, a park with a few trees for shade. I like that there are only a few trees. That's quite enough.'

My steps echo in the empty rooms as I close the book and walk up to the giant window. I wonder how it will stand a real storm; it's supposed to be constructed with that in mind. I guess we'll find out when that happens. The apartment smells fresh, new, with a hint of wood and plastic, the cupboards unused, the toilet never soiled, no one else's hair in the drain. Outside it's quiet and still. The moon is full and blood red, huge, hanging, dangling, right by the horizon, reflecting in the peaceful ocean. The tranquility of the scenery in a way the same that I experienced in the cabin, and still so very different.

I grip my side and fight the urge to cough. If I start it never stops and I know by now that if I subdue the reflex it passes after a while. I know I'm not supposed to, they told me that the cough is meant to clear the airways, but I cough until it feels as if I'm about to start spitting blood, and that just can't be right.

Cecilia is sleeping soundly, snoring, still having a bit of a cold, but she's healing quickly. Quicker than me. Sometimes my little girl seems to be made out of steel and reminds me whose daughter she is - too. She's wrapped up in a thick blanket on a mattress on the floor in the next room. It's all a bit unplanned, almost as if on a whim. But I feel free.

Myself, I have the most twisted sleeping habits. I haven't lain down yet. I drink tea, think, write a little, and just exist. Dawn is only an hour away. Yet another sleepless night lies behind me. Yet another warped day awaits, where I'm barely awake, barely believing I'm back here, and at the same time hyper-sensitized, experiencing everything so clearly as if through a magnifying glass. Every scent, every breeze, the warm rays from the sun, the sand between my toes, my daughter's breathing, every heartbeat.

Every memory.

::

'January 7, 2008

We've lived here a week now. Our beds arrived today. Pocket springs. Luxurious. Some Swedish brand I found. I bought two. She'll grow into it. Everything we own is new. We came here with only the clothes on our bodies and my journals in a bag and we had to go on a shopping spree the first thing after settling in at the hotel. We didn't stay at the Lux. I haven't been by there yet, it's… it evokes memories. Cecilia has accepted her new surroundings with a child's amazing capability to adjust. She keeps talking about 'Dad'. I simply tell her that he's gone. I'm done with lying.

At least to her.'

Tossing the journal on the kitchen counter, I take a sip out of my coffee mug and then I smile wickedly at my daughter. "I'm coming to get you! Tickletickletickle."

She squeals and runs across the room, climbing up on one of the new beds. I run after her, jumping up on the other bed and begin to bounce. We bounce up and down on our new beds and laugh before it comes to an abrupt stop for me when I have a coughing fit and fall into a sweaty, coughing, laughing heap.

When she grows tired of hugging, she slithers off the bed and picks up paper and crayons and starts drawing circles… no, squares and dots… ah, well - whatever it is she's drawing. The dots remind me of the snow, and I shudder from the memory. I wonder how much she remembers - how much she will remember.

She hasn't asked where he went, why he's gone. Maybe she's too small to follow up on the 'dad's gone' statement. And when she's older she won't recall any of this.

Unless I help her.

I don't know how to keep his memory alive. The easiest would be to just not talk about him, but that wouldn't be fair to either of them. How will his heritage affect her? She was conceived during a rape and her father was a murderer. Not just any murderer either… he was a professional assassin. It's a pedagogical nightmare.

Cecilia comes running and pushes a drawing into my hands, then she runs off to her writing corner again. As I try to think of Jackson's good traits, at least one, I study the multicolored circles on the paper. She trusted him from the first moment. She saw something in him that I couldn't. I'll tell her about that. About how they found each other in spite of everything.

He did save her life. I cling to the memory. That is something to hold on to and to let her know about.

::

'April 14, 2008

I visited the Lux Atlantic today. It was exactly as difficult as I had figured. Everybody came to see me. Everybody. It was overwhelming. But the girls demanded they be able to come by tomorrow night. Cynthia, Olivia, Sandra, and Jane, all of them. The front desk quartet. I'm terrified. I've been away from people for so long that I don't know how to get back into socializing. But somewhere deep inside it feels amazing that they remember me; that they'll take me in even though I never used to let them in.

I feel… happy.'

::

The doorbell clings softly. At first I don't even know what the sound is through the music, then I realize what it is and rush to the door. I haven't heard it since the first week I got here.

Four beautiful women pour through my door; wine bottles in hand, large multi-colored flowers, bags with cute children's clothes from expensive stores, chitter-chattering.

It's overwhelming and I don't know how to handle them. I smile in all the appropriate places and feel how I distance myself, how I keep them and the offered friendliness away. I've lost too many people, been hurt too much. I don't think I'll let anyone in, ever again.

We eat and they update me on everything Lux; the restoration, the new manager who took my place, the new cook, old customers. I sit opposite Cynthia and feel twinges of guilt. She always confided in me and always let me in. Now I see a slight hesitation in her gaze and I sense that she isn't quite here.

A little like me.

I wonder how she got that inch-long scar under her right eye. It makes her look a little older, a little less child-like. A lot has happened, I guess. It's been a long time.

After the main course, and a couple glasses of wine, I'm beginning to relax. They're fun. Spanish and English are thrown recklessly through the air. Olivia has a new boyfriend who snores like a troll and she is seriously considering getting rid of him for that reason only. Sandra offers repeatedly to let 'the poor man' sleep in her bed, and they engage in a lively discussion about what's hot and what's not in a man. None of them have any problems finding men; Olivia with her cat eyes and olive skin, courtesy of a mother from somewhere in Asia and a Colombian father, and Sandra, who came on a little boat from Cuba when she was a toddler, shorter than me, thick curly hair and black eyes that flash with mischief, discards one rich boyfriend after another. I can imagine the vision when they go out with tall, platinum blonde Jane, chattering, dancing. I sit with my mouth open and just listen. They seem so young. Was I like that once? I know I was. Just like that.

I feel so old.

As the others put the plates in the dishwasher, I put Cece to bed. She falls asleep with her head in my lap while I read to her, exhausted from all the excitement and all the attention.

Exiting her room, I almost walk right into Cynthia.

"Hey you," she says in a low voice.

"Hey," I answer.

"Can I talk with you? Just for a few minutes? Alone." She wrings her hands and looks almost afraid.

Worry wells up inside me for no clear reason and I nod. "Sure." I nod towards the living room with a question in my eyes.

"They're drinking, and they're still discussing men. They're in bliss." She rolls her hazel eyes and gives me a half-smile.

"In here." I pull her gently into the bathroom and close and lock the door. "What is it?" My concern is now very livid and my heart pounds hard. No matter what it is, I just know it's bad. Unexpected things are always bad.

"Uhm…" she starts. "After you had quit at the Lux, and then moved… maybe five or six months after you left us… you must've given birth by then…" He voice falters and I nod, encouraging her to go on, even though I know I don't want to hear.

"After work one night, I'd worked late... it was before I met Craig."

She's stuttering and swallowing and it's so obvious how hard this is for her that I actually stretch out and lay my hands on hers. "What is it Cyn? What happened?"

"There was a man in my apartment when I got home… he attacked me… he had the strangest blue eyes… almost spooky…"

My knees weaken and the food in my stomach suddenly feels like cement. I swallow repeatedly to prevent it from come rushing up. I hear the rest as through a thick fog.

"…beat me really bad…"

"…hour after hour…"

"…asking for you…"

"…didn't think I'd make it…"

I slam open the toilet lid and throw up until there's nothing left and all that comes up is bitter gall. I feel hands in my hair, and a cool hand on my forehead, and I'm so ashamed. Ashamed that I happened to pull her into this; that she had to experience that. Ashamed that all this time I've been feeling like it's me, and always me, that I'm the one that everything happens to, that I've been so sickeningly self-centered.

When I look up at her, her makeup is smudged and she's crying quietly. I wipe my cheeks and realize that I'm crying too.

"Lisa… it was the man from the plane… wasn't it?"

I regard her and then a horrifying thought strikes me. With lips so numb from fear that I can barely produce the words, I still have to ask. "Did he rape you, Cynthia? DID HE RAPE YOU?" I hiss, and then slap my own hand across my mouth, hoping the others didn't hear me.

She looks at me, frowning. "No. He did a lot of… things." She swallows hard. "It's hard to talk about…"

I nod quickly. "I understand."

"But no… he didn't rape me… he didn't do anything… sexual… at all…" She suddenly grabs my upper arm hard, too hard, her gaze shifting rapidly between my belly and my face. "Oh my God, Lisa! That's what it is, isn't it? You met him again. That's why you disappeared. He raped you, didn't he?" She nods towards the door, in the direction of my beautiful baby, sleeping peacefully in her bed. "She's… Oh, God!"

My cheeks are so hot, my throat hurts and I want to flee. I don't want to talk. Then I look at her scar and cringe. She knows. She knows about him and she's been to hell and back. Like me. I can trust her. I'm not the only one who's been hurt. Who said that? HE said it… I'm somehow sure this wasn't what he had in mind. Or maybe it was?

"Can we talk about this later?" I whisper. "Really… talk?"

She nods. "How do we explain this to the girls?" We straighten and look at ourselves in the mirror. Cynthia doesn't look half as bad as I do, she dabs some cold water on her cheeks and wipes under her eyes and then she looks fine. I'm swollen and puffy-eyed.

"Do you feel like continuing the night?" she asks.

I shake my head.

"I'm so sorry, Leese!"

"Don't be! I'm actually… happy… even if it sounds really weird."

She frowns and looks strangely at me. "Believe me, it does."

I can't help the smile. This is Cynthia. Carefree. Witty. Funny. Maybe, just maybe, I can find her again. All of a sudden there's a flicker of hope within me.

Maybe I can find myself again.

::

'April 17, 2008

I used to think of him a lot because I felt like I had to in order to survive. I needed to keep my focus and never forget. Now I have moved back home, where the open ocean soothes my need for air and the bright sky lifts me up. It helps a little. No. It helps a lot. But he still lingers.

He's dead. So why do I keep feeling this pain? Why doesn't it go away?

It hurts just as much every time as I see him throw himself after her before disappearing into the ravine. He gave his LIFE for her…

And how did I treat him? What did I make of his last days? Cecilia's father.

God. I'll never be free, will I?

I'm almost afraid of meeting Cynthia again. It feels as if I hurt her, as if I'm to blame. It felt so right when she was here but now, that I'm meeting her again tonight, my courage fails me.

Okay, time's up. Gotta go.'

::

She's cut her red hair into a short bob and there's a new air of self assurance surrounding her. I think of my own hunched posture and straighten my shoulders, feeling ashamed that I've lost it so. We're meeting at our favorite Cuban bar. It's still early and the music isn't too loud. Cynthia's ordered two Seabreezes and I smile as the waiter sets them down on the table.

"You remembered! I haven't had one of these in ages," I say as I caress away the fog on the rim of the glass.

"You haven't had much fun in a long time, now have you?"

I shake my head as I take a first sip. It's stronger than I remember it, but not as strong as I need it. "No."

"I have to tell you, Lisa, I really like that you've put on some more eye makeup. It suits you, enhances your eyes, like turning a leaf, a new you."

That makes me proud and I straighten even further. I agree. It does look nice. I left home and felt kind of good about it. We eye each other for a moment, hesitantly, and then we spend the first drink talking about harmless things, avoiding all things Jackson Rippner. When we've just received the second round, Cynthia breaks the deceptive calm and peacefulness we've both managed to lull ourselves into.

"What happened, Leese?"

I take a much larger swallow. "A lot."

"He raped you?"

I frown and think back. I still hate to admit that he did, but I've decided to come clean with myself and that I need to include Cynthia in this because of the part she had to play. "Yes."

"When?"

"A month after… the bombing."

"You getting pregnant surprised us all! No one could figure it out. We all bugged you about who the father was and I remember you hinted about a guy in another state. You seemed off somehow, but that seemed natural after what you'd been through. Heh, we must've been such a pain in your ass! Leese… what happened, really?"

I squirm. "Oh please, you go first."

She looks at me one moment too long. "I gotta pee." And she's gone. I caress a spot on the table, scraping off some unknown substance with the nail on my index finger, as I wait for her to return. I catch myself doing it and have to scrape whatever-it-was off my nail instead. I know I'm a compulsory cleaner; three years of working in hotels, cleaning rooms, waiting tables, working my way from the bottom up while I went to college, leaves its trace.

I wish I could just run off while she's away. I already know this is going to be painful and I don't want to go there. Cynthia seems to have handled things so differently. Maybe I can too?

Suddenly, she's back, smiling. "Man, that felt good! Where were we?"

I regard her. "I want to know how you got that scar. I really need to know, actually."

Her features darken a shade and some of that lightness leaves her. "Promise you won't pity me. I'm kinda done with the angst on this one and I don't wanna go there again."

And I realize what a beautiful idea that is, how clever that is of her. I smile. "As long as you promise not to pity me."

"Deal."

She takes a large sip from her drink and inhales, a brief, apologetic smile passing her features. "All right. He - Jackson, right? - was in my apartment one night when I got home. It was a few months after you'd moved. I almost died. At first from fear, and then because he beat me so bad."

I swallow so hard that it hurts my throat. "How did he… beat you?"

"He-uhm… he twisted my arm behind my back until it broke in two places… my right arm. He slammed my head against the wall until I passed out…" Her voice fades.

"So… uhm… how many new ways can you bend your arm now?"

She stares at me for a moment, and then she bursts out laughing. "Lisa Reisert! I can't believe you just said that!"

"You asked for non-pity. Well… I'm working on it."

She snorts and takes another large gulp. "One more." She waves for the waiter and holds up two fingers in the air, then points at our half empty glasses. "Want me to go on?"

"I was kinda hoping there wasn't any more."

Cynthia grimaces. "When I woke up, he was still there. He'd torn through my place, turned everything upside down, looking for any signs of you I figure. I kept telling him that I didn't know where you were, but he called me all kinds of ugly things and slapped me around some more. And he was cruel… like sadistically cruel… he made me believe I had chances to get away, he went into another room a couple of times, turned his back on me and all. And every time, as I had just gotten to the door, or had started to dial 911… he came back. I have memory loss for parts of it… I had a bad concussion and actually some kind of bruising on the surface of my brain they tell me."

I must have grimaced because Cynthia points at me at the same time as our new drinks arrive. "No pity, remember! And, well, that's about it, really."

I nod as I drink up the old one and hand the empty glass to the waiter. "No pity. But Cynthia… I have a bomb to drop… and I don't know how to even start."

"Just don't tell me you're married to the creep!"

"Jeez, Cyn! No!"

"Woo! I'm relieved. Just start, girl. He raped you."

"This last winter I spent three days locked up in a cabin in Canada during a raging snowstorm. With him."

She stares at me, then she starts laughing. "Sure. And I'll be marrying Santa Claus next spring. Don't think you can worm your way out of this by being funny."

"I wasn't. You're getting married?"

She looks like the cat who ate the cream.

"Congrats! To the both of you!"

"Thanks, hon!" Then she is quiet, regarding me. "I think you need to explain yourself, then," she finally says.

I bite my lip. "Mm. I think… no I know, that he came to kill me initially, both that morning, at my father's, and then the month after, in my apartment. But there was always some kind of… energy between us. I don't know how to explain it, really… I know it sounds so weird, and it's so hard to try to put words to. I mean he's a complete stranger to me, but he obviously knew way too much about me, and somehow I triggered all the wrong circuits in him, both back on the plane, and when he came for me…"

"If you ask me I'd say he's easily triggered!"

I bend my head. "Yeah," I whisper. "He probably decided death wasn't punishment enough for me."

"Did he know? About what you'd been through before?"

"Yeah…"

"Oh, God! I can't believe it!"

"Cyn!"

"Sorry. Go on."

"There's not much more to say… he forced himself on me. I fought the whole time, I was more angry than scared… but he's stronger… He almost killed me."

"Yeah… Hey! We could start a club."

I raise an eyebrow. I'm not a fraction as affected by the drinks as she clearly is.

"Yeah, us, the ones that got away," she explains.

I wince and scrunch up my face, deciding to leave that comment to itself. That'd be a very, very small club, considering how few people he seemed to leave alive. Dangerously close to losing myself in memories I have to fight to focus on Cynthia again. I can't believe how she can still keep her cheery, almost naïve ways after all she's been through. Maybe she has something to teach me. "Anyway, afterwards, he said he was sorry."

"What a piece of shit!"

"And I wished I could have forgiven him." I almost whisper the last words, glancing around me quickly to see that no one is sitting so close that they can hear us.

"Huh. Like beaten wife syndrome… but you shouldn't feel that way about a stranger. That's kinda weird."

"But that's the thing. He didn't feel like a stranger. It's so strange, but it feels like I know him." Knew.

"He's very manipulative, Leese. Don't put this on yourself."

"You're probably right."

"So… how was he?"

I frown. "Excuse me?"

She winks at me, her huge hazel eyes flashing with mischief. "You know… Even I wasn't immune to how the bastard looks. It's almost unreal."

My mouth falls open. "You're-" I choke on what I was about to say and she grins. "I'm kidding you! You begged me to show you no pity. I'm trying my freakin' hardest. Jeez, Leese!"

And what scares me the most isn't that she would think that a man that beat her half to death was even remotely attractive, but that I actually found it plausible for a brief moment. I've begged her to be harsh, and to stay cool, no matter what I say, because I can't tell her all this if she'd cry and turn soft; but myself, I'm rolling in self-pity and self-disgust right now because… I'm a freak. And I can't let anyone know.

I grin. "I knew that."

She claps her hands, then wolfs down a large gulp of orange fluid. "So. You're killing me, Leese. Tell me about your 'bomb'! That you met him again? In Canada? Is that it? You know-"She leans forward and takes my hand, grinning. "I really would've thought that admit to having your rapist's kid would've been quite a 'bomb'."

I lean away slightly, suddenly aching. "That's not how I think of her."

Cynthia's smile fades. "Leese. I'm so sorry! Of course you don't. And Cece's the most beautiful, adorable child I've ever seen. I'm a bit drunk. Are we okay?" Her gaze seeks mine and for a moment I don't know. That really hurt. I've never thought of her that way. She came to me as a blessing, and maybe her existence has even saved me, saved me from Jackson's wrath… and myself from going under. I will never know. All I know is that I love her more than life itself… and that her father obviously loved her more than his own life.

"God, I'm so sorry, Leese! I didn't mean to make you cry! Just tell me I'm a complete bitch and that this was a mistake and we'll be out of here in no time."

I'm crying?

I didn't know I'm crying. I touch my wet cheeks and then I look up at her. "It's okay. I know you don't think that. But I can't have others thinking of her - or me - like that. We'd be judged beforehand. I trust you, Cyn…"

She nods, eager to please. "Of course."

"We ran away, he was never far behind…" I begin retelling the long and painful story of how he got closer and closer and how I finally had to escape. How I ended up in rural Canada and how we holed up there until he suddenly showed up again.

"But… how the hell did he find you?"

"As far as I can figure it, it was a coincidence. Weird."

I leave out the worst parts. I can't tell how he killed Ray. I just can't.

"Weren't you afraid?"

"More than I've ever been in my entire life. More than when he… raped me." I'm still finding it so hard to spell out. "I tried to kill him," I add, quickly, to rectify my failing voice.

"Of course you did! How the hell did you survive?"

It's so unreal to sit here, in the steaming hot Miami night, with a girlfriend, cocktails, with Latin music and friendly faces around us, and recall three stormy days and nights in Canada.

"Maybe that's the real bomb…" I inhale deeply and finally say it out loud. "He didn't come to kill me. He never hurt us. In fact… he saved Cece's life."

::

'May 1, 2008

Cynthia started crying when I told her that Jackson is dead. I don't know how to interpret that in any other way than that it was from relief. Is that how I should feel as well?

Relief.'

I taste the word. I try to taste the feeling, but it's not there. I can't find it.

::

I stand outside the Lux and just breathe. In. Out. In. Out. I can't believe it. They offered me a job. Not my old job, this one has fewer responsibilities, but still a managerial position. Why? After all this time and all that happened. Mr. Edwards was so nice to me, told me how they had missed my happy smile and ever-professional attitude. I had a creeping suspicion during the whole lunch-turning-job interview that the old man had no clue as to who I am.

But the job does sound nice. Fun even.

I don't know if I'll accept it, though, it'll take me away from Cece.

A small voice at the back of my mind keeps repeating that she needs to start seeing other kids; that I have hidden her from the world for too long. She'll be two years old soon and she is very social, very easy to get along with, and very curious about other people.

She has stopped talking about 'Jack'.

The sky is cloudy, orange-tinged, and the air is humid. There's talk of a tropical storm rolling in tonight. They come early this year; it's still spring. I can't help but smile, thinking about how I'll sit with a glass of white wine and rest my eyes on the fury of the ocean as the waves whip the beach.

And how I'll be hoping that the windows will keep up their promise.

Twisting the tendrils of hair at my neck, flipping them between my index and middle fingers, I turn the stroller north and start walking along the narrow sidewalk, avoiding the largest cracks in the concrete. My hair is still short, but it has a ragged style to it that I like very much, a styled style. I wonder what he would have thought of it.

And I really don't know why I just wondered that.

I will accept the offer. I need it. Not for the money. But I need it for my sanity, for my mind. I need to feel like I'm doing something. I can't just… drift.

I'm going to accept it. I'll call the hotel tomorrow.

Cece sleeps like a log, her dark hair curled against her forehead in the moist heat, and I walk on light feet until I reach the shore where I struggle against the wind for a while before I hail a taxi that takes us home.